


The Vitruvian Revelation

by SHERjohnLOCK



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Insecurity, Kissing, M/M, Plotless, Porn Without Plot, Smut, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:17:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHERjohnLOCK/pseuds/SHERjohnLOCK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sher- oh God," John moaned, as Sherlock dotted his neck with soft, sweet kisses. The short blonde man was pushed up against the wall in their bedroom: hands and arms pinned to the space above his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vitruvian Revelation

**Author's Note:**

> Nicole--this is for you! (◡‿◡✿)

"Sher- _oh_   _God,"_ John moaned, as Sherlock dotted his neck with soft, sweet kisses. The short blonde man was pushed up against the wall in their bedroom: hands and arms pinned to the space above his head.

Sherlock was in a state of euphoria, exploring every inch of John. Licking, tasting, kissing every detail on the impossibly tan skin of his lover. This was exceedingly better than any high he had ever experienced.

John had freed his arms from the detective's secure grip. _Finally_. His hands tugged at the hem of Sherlock's sleek eggplant coloured button-up, managing to remove it from being tucked into his black trousers. John worked each one of these buttons with haste, wishing he could tear it off of Sherlock's body to speed up this intense process.

He threw the shirt on the floor next to the bed and their lips met once again. They immersed themselves in passionate kisses tasting of sweet tea and cinnamon. 

John knelt down as his rough, aged hands grazed over every inch of Sherlock's torso, admiring the defined muscles shaping the man's soft, pale skin. Short fingers traced the scars and imperfections on the body standing before him, embracing Sherlock as if he were a rare piece in a museum, which required delicate care.

Sherlock took off his belt, unzipped his black trousers, and kicked them off to the other side of the room. No more playing around now. 

John was face-to-face with the glorious, expensive, onyx-black boxers which were tented by Sherlock's erection.  John caressed Sherlock's arousal over the cotton fabric, and a subdued groan slipped from Sherlock's lips. He continued this contact, watching his detective clamp his eyes shut as his head tilted backwards. John pulled the boxers down and promptly took hold of Sherlock in his right hand, grasping it with all of his intent.

John licked the base of Sherlock's cock all the way to the tip, enthralled in the moans above him. Sherlock, growing awfully impatient, gripped John by the sides of his head and pushed his cock into John's mouth, thrusting back and forth, practically stabbing the back of John's throat with his prick. Clutching Sherlock's arse, John kept himself steady.

As soon as he felt the detective's cock begin to tighten, thinking he was going to come any second, Sherlock withdrew himself from John's mouth and pulled the shorter man on his feet. He dipped his head and enveloped them, once more, in a kiss. Sherlock began to unbutton John's shirt, but John stepped back.

Confused, Sherlock questions him, "What's the matter?"

"Sherlock, do you think we could," John stammered, struggling to find the right words.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. John was doing everything in his power to avoid eye contact with Sherlock as he asked, "Do you think we could do this...with the lights _off_?"

Sherlock's eyes softened, "Did I do something wrong?" 

" _No_ , not at all," John reassured him. "It's just, well...I'm not as _fit_ as I used to be and I'm quite afraid you won't find me appealing, and you know about my scar and---."

Before John could finish his sentence, he noticed Sherlock was rummaging through the chestnut coloured drawers near his bed.

Sherlock retrieved a beige piece of paper that looked like it survived a tornado or two. It was torn with burnt edges and stains of some liquid that Sherlock had probably spilled on it whilst he was performing one of his ridiculous experiments. He sauntered over towards John and held it out in his hand. On this decrepit piece of paper was a printing of Leonardo da Vinci's drawing of the Vitruvian Man, and it just happened to be that a photo of John's head was cut and pasted onto it's body.

After reviewing it for a moment, John shook his head and muttered, "I don't understand."

Sherlock took a deep breath as if he were about to embark on a pre-planned soliloquy and began, "Da Vinci is representing this man's body as a building which linked the proportions of man to architectural structures in the Renaissance time period. Candidly, this was drawn to show the perfect human structure, thus relating itself to the perfect architecture that all buildings should be created using ideal dimensions."

"What's your point then?"

The dim light coming from the lamp near the bed illuminated Sherlock's compassionate expression. His eyes were intelligent and dark.

Sherlock acted as if this was the most absurd question he's ever heard. "You are perfect," Sherlock declared without a doubt, like John should already know this. His clear and calming voice pierced the deafening silence between the two men.

It seemed as if those three words were the result of long and tedious preparation and countless scenarios played out in Sherlock's infinite mind. 

John's eyes locked onto Sherlock's face.

This was the man who has been called a freak, a robot, even a machine. John simply could not believe that people would actually think that of him. Sherlock Holmes is not a rude, obnoxious arsehole as others seem to believe, and John has known this for a while now. He has a heart. He is a real, genuine, warm human being. Perhaps, the most human, human being John has ever had the good fortune of knowing. 

The insecurities eating at his mind like a gruesome parasite, along with every doubt John has ever had about himself, deteriorated in that moment. 

He hadn't a clue what to say, so he acted upon his first instinct. His arms draped over Sherlock's waist and pulled him in and John rested his head on Sherlock's chest and closed his eyes.

Sherlock planted a sweet, delicate kiss on the top of his head, and whispered something under his breath that John didn't quite catch.

The two men stood there, in the middle of their bedroom, in a desperate embrace. They didn't speak a word to each other---just stood there together in a bond of skin and love.


End file.
